


when you grow up, your heart dies

by TheMousePrince



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Breakfast Club Fusion, Detention, F/F, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Straights - Freeform, POV Alternating, Recreational Drug Use, Slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMousePrince/pseuds/TheMousePrince
Summary: Sana, Isak, Even, Eva, and Vilde are spending the Saturday in detention. Shenanigans, romance, rebellion, and growing up ensues.[The Breakfast Club AU some people asked for. No need to have seen the movie to read this fic.]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After spending a lot of time thinking about it (and researching), I decided to set this fic in its own universe. It's not really in the USA nor in Norway. It's not an high school AU nor a Norwegian!Breakfast Club AU. It's a Breakfast Club AU.

_Dear Ms Willhelmsen,_

__

__

_We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong but we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we are._  
_What do you care?_  
_You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, with the most convenient definitions._  
_You see us as a homo, a slut, a basket case, a princess, and a terrorist. Correct?_  
_That’s the way we saw each other at 7 o’clock this morning. We were brainwashed._

——————————

A tall teenage boy sporting a blonde pompadour is leaning on the side of the school building, his pale frame almost blending into the white wall. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jean jacket’s pocket and taps it against his wrist until a cigarette slides up towards him. He snatches it with his lips and lights it.

The cloud of smoke hangs in the chilling morning air as a battered green car parks in front of the school gates.

——————————

The man inside the car stares at the boy taking another drag in. His mental admonitions are interrupted by the passenger’s door unlocking.

“Hold up, son,” he says, extending a hand to rest on the passenger’s shoulder.

The boy immediately tenses and the man takes off his hand as if he’d just gotten burned.

“I’m sorry, Isak, I for—”

“It’s OK,” the boy interrupts.

A shiver runs up his spine as he fights against the urge to rub his dad’s touch off his shoulder.

He takes off the red snapback he’s wearing and combs his curly blonde hair with his free hand before pulling his hat back on a bit too hard.

The man grabs the steering wheel and takes a deep breath in.

“You know I only want what’s best for you, right?” he asks.

Isak’s head is turned away from his father and he is staring at the boy who, reclined against the school building, is puffing smoke. He can barely see his face from this far but for a second he swears...

...he can see the boy wink at him.

“I know your mom would want you to talk to her about” —Tarje gestures at nothing (at anything other than his son) —”this.”

Isak snaps out of his reveries.

“You don’t know shit about what Mom would want,” he retorts.

“Hey! That’s not a way to talk to your father!”

But Isak is already out of the car. He slams the door behind him and starts walking towards the school (not too fast but not too slow, shit, how do people usually walk?).

He thinks his dad will get out of the car and follow him. Chase him even. To shout at him, then apologise, then tell him they’re not done here...

Anything.

But as he reaches the few stairs leading up to the front door, he hears the engine start up and the car drive away.

——————————

A girl with a pink ribbon artfully tied in her blonde hair steps off a tram.

She starts walking at a fast, almost nervous, pace but has to stop as she reaches her school to let a bottle green car do a U-turn.

The driver nods at her in acknowledgement and she stares a bit too long at the red in his eyes and the tissue he is squeezing between his right hand and the wheel. When she finally raises a hand at him in polite acknowledgement, he is already back in traffic.

She feels stupid.

Vilde is stepping through the school gates when she sees two boys already waiting in front of the building. One of them is staring at his feet a bit too hard while the other uses the butt of the cigarette he just finished to light up a new one.

Without really thinking, she immediately shifts trajectories and heads to the opposite side of the building —staying as far away from the boys as she possibly can— her eyes resolutely fixed in front of her.

Once she is out of view, protected by a whole building of bricks and classrooms, she squats down and starts rummaging through her backpack for her makeup kit.

——————————

A slick black car parks in one swift motion at the entrance of the school grounds. Hip hop music is blasting from its speakers, lyrics reduced to a rhythmic hum by the body of the car.

The music is turned off and replaced by shouting. The passenger’s door opens to reveal a teenage girl with kohl-rimmed eyes and wearing a dark green hijab. From inside the car, the shouting continues. The girl gets out of the car, rolls her eyes with her entire body, and lets out a loud sigh.

“Elias!” she shouts. Once.

The car gets quiet. She bends over, her head disappearing inside the vehicle, and says a few words.

A pause.

Then the music resumes as she straightens. She closes the passenger’s door in one elegant motion and the car drives away smoothly.

Sana turns around and power walks to the school. Ahead of her —on the right side of the building— a blonde girl is reapplying lip gloss, using her smartphone as a mirror.

When Sana reaches the school building, she quickly glances at Even and the boy he was (very obviously) eyeing —both now staring at her— before pushing the front doors open and stepping inside the school.

——————————

A girl with dark red hair that goes down to her waist steps silently out of a royal purple car.

She witnesses a tall boy —wearing a jean jacket— hold the front door of the school for a slightly shorter boy —wearing a snapback— and gesture him inside. They seem to argue quickly —the taller boy just smiling as the shorter boy’s hands flutter between them— before the one with the snapback bends his head down in defeat and steps inside the building, followed closely by the boy with the jean jacket.

Eva turns around to say goodbye to her mother, only to realise she’s already driven away.

She drags her Vans to the school building and steps inside, unaware a girl with pink glossy lips is awkwardly waiting for her to disappear before she feels safe following.


	2. Chapter One

**SANA**

I’ll make it quick. I can do that. Quick and (relatively) painless. Just like ripping off a band-aid.

This detention is one big, long band-aid.

I’m glad I pushed past these two idiots googly-eyeing each other. Now I have first-pick of where to sit.

The library is reasonably big, with twelve tables and chairs arranged in sets of twos and rows of six.

I pick my usual middle spot, where I can blend (as much as you can blend in this country wearing a hijab). Middle row, on the far right (ha!), closest to the door. I don’t know what it is with doors. I just need to be near them. And I need them to be shut. Or else I always feel like someone is just around the corner listening, or maybe ready to burst in.

Perks of having two older brothers, I guess.

Focus!

I take a deep breath in just as Even and that “try way too hard” guy walk in.

—————————— 

**ISAK**

Breathe.

I can feel him walking behind me more than I can actually hear his footsteps echo on the linoleum floor. I can fucking _feel_ him staring at my back so hard he’s probably burning a hole in my varsity jacket.

I hate this.

The hijabi girl already got the best seat. And apparently, I take a bit too long to decide where to sit instead because she shoots me _a look_. Like she can see right through my skull and directly at my brain. Like her eyes are following the electric signals shot by my synapses.

She raises an eyebrow at me and I start out of my trance and head to the seat at the exact opposite of hers, in the middle row.

The chair makes a horrible screeching noise that resonates (way too loudly) in the high-roofed library. As a result, the Muslim girl and _that_ guy openly stare at me and I feel the panic course through my body, cold as ice. I sit down way too fast and wince as my tailbone hits the back edge of the chair.

—————————— 

**EVEN**

That must have hurt because I can see his eyes water as he clenches his fists.

His eyes finally meet mine and that must have hurt too because he proceeds to bend his head and is now looking intent on learning (and naming) every single thread composing his jeans.

Sana clearing her throat pulls me out of my reflexions. I look at her and she looks at me back, and does this thing with her mouth —like she’s wetting the back of her teeth— followed by a sly grin.

_What?_ I mouth.

She covers a pretend yawn with her hand and I shrug in return.

I pick the seat right behind Isak and, after carefully sitting down (I learn fast), I prop my legs up on the free chair on my right.

This is going to be good.

—————————— 

**EVA**

It’s only as I step inside the library —and am welcomed by a pair of dark brown eyes— that I realise how cold it was outside. My face and fingers are gently burning from the sudden contrast in temperatures and my stomach feels a bit weird (I hope it’s not a cold).

The best seat —in the back, closest to the heater— is already taken by a gigantic boy with pretty lips. I sit next to him (or, I should say, next to his legs) on the left side of the back row.

I can hear sparks crackling in my hair as I take off my big woollen scarf.

I wonder if wearing a hijab in winter feels cosy.

The girl in front of me finally takes her black jacket off and I can see lapel pins attached to it, catching the ceiling’s neon lights. The only one I can properly examine from this angle is a pink dripping heart with a black outline. In it, a mint green dripping text with a white outline reads DUMP HIM.

I can’t help but smile.

—————————— 

**VILDE**

Of course, none of them picked the front row.

The only face I recognise is Eva’s —there’s not a single party in Oslo she’s not (drunk) at— and that Muslim girl’s. I wonder what _she_ did.

I sit in the front seat, on the boy side.

Before even taking my cream coloured down jacket off, I take my phone out and —balancing it on my lap— discreetly examine my face. Lip gloss is still shining (and I have to resist the urge to eat it). Foundation is flawless, although there’s a redness on my chin that worries me. I suppress the urge to pick at it.

When I raise my head, my eyes catch the Muslim girl’s. She has a pocket mirror out and is staring at me. When she sees I noticed her, she looks down towards my laps like she can see my phone —how could she see it under the table? how could she know?— and smirks. She then calmly goes back to examining her own make-up, brushing an eyebrow with a finger, rolling her lips a few times…

She closes her mirror with a snap that makes me start so violently my phone is ejected from my laps and goes flying across the room just as Ms Willhelmsen comes in.

—————————— 

**SANA**

The vice principal looks straight at me. She’s already identified me as public enemy number one and, through the white fabric of her top, her braless nipples are pointing straight at me too: a couple of rocket launchers.

Lock and load.

She bends over to pick up blondie’s smartphone and raises it in front of her.

“Please follow Ms Hellerud’s example by handing me your smartphones, tablets, and other— “ her eyes land on the earphones hanging down from my jacket to the floor— “electronic devices!”

She goes around the tables, collecting our souls, before getting back to the front of the room. “They will be returned to you at the end of your _detention_.”

—————————— 

**ISAK**

I swear I can see her nipples get harder when she says it. _Detention_. Ugh.

I feel sick.

“Excuse me?” The blonde in front of me raises her hand and I cringe in anticipation. “I know this is detention and all but—” She turns her head slightly to the right and I see the hijabi girl shoot knives out of her eyes. —”I don’t think I belong in here.”

The teacher smiles. She grabs the suggestion box from the Loans and Returns desk, takes the lid off, and dumps our phones and iPods in it.

“It is now 7:06—” she puts the box back down on the desk and gestures at the clock on the wall behind her —“you have exactly eight hours and fifty-four minutes to think about why you’re here. Ponder the error of your ways.”

She pauses.

Then turns to the annoying blonde.

“You may not talk.” Snotty’s time to sink into her chair now. “You will not move from these seats. And you—” she points and I hear the James Dean-wannabe take his feet off the table and let them drop loudly onto the floor. —”will not sleep.”

—————————— 

**EVEN**

She knows.

Some would call it paranoia but, when you’re crazy (I know how that sounds), you develop a sixth sense for people who treat you differently because they _know_. It’s that mixture of aggression and apprehension sprinkled with just a little bit of guilt (enough to make them feel OK with themselves) that gives it away.

That last rule Ms Willhelmsen directed at me feels ominous. More a promise than a warning.

She grabs a pile of sheets of paper and a few pens from the Loans and Returns desk and starts distributing them amongst us.

“We’re going to try something a little different today. _We_ are going to write an essay —of no less than a thousand words— describing to me who you think you are.”

“Is this a test?” I hear Sana mutter and I smile at her, until Ms Willhelmsen slams a sheet of paper and a pen too hard on Sana’s table, making her flinch.

—————————— 

**EVA**

I think I might have jumped way more than the girl in front of me. My heart is pounding so hard, the blood is propulsed right up to my ears.

Jonas used to say I was the toughest girl he knew but I’m not.

Right now I am a child, and I’m terrified.

“And when I say essay, I mean essay,” Ms Willhelmsen continues, her voice louder. “I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times.” She raises an eyebrow at the boy with the snapback and he shifts in his seat. “Is that clear, Mr Valtersen?”

“Crystal,” the boy say.

“Good—” Ms Willhelmsen is back on her “stage” at the front of our group of tables.

For a second, right there and then, she looks like my mum. A trick of the light (probably? neons always make my eyes burn) makes her facial features shift, ever so slightly, and she _is_ my mum.

My heart races even more. 

“—even decide whether or not you care to return.”

Shit, I completely tuned her out.

My mum is back to being Ms Willhelmsen and I quickly scan the room, eager to see —in my cellmates’ faces— if I missed anything important.

“Mr Valtersen” takes his snapback off and rises from his chair.

Oh boy.

—————————— 

**VILDE**

I can’t help but turn around as soon as I hear the boy’s chair screech against the floor.

“I can tell you that right now, Ms.” He is clenching his snapback in his hands like he’s at mass or something. Pathetic. “I don’t personally care to return, ‘cause—”

“Sit down, Isak,” Ms Willhelmsen interrupts and I stifle a smile.

Did he seriously think he was going to get away with _that_? If it didn’t work for me, it won’t work for anyone (logic).

I stare at him while he drops down on his chair and wait until his eyes meet mine. Then I look at him up and down, _really_ slowly. Red blooms on his neck and travels up to his jaw.

My mission, here, is done.

—————————— 

**SANA**

“My office—” Ms Willhelmsen’s breasts shift as she points at somewhere outside of the library, through the open door. I shiver as I think about who (or what) could be just around the corner —”is right across that hall. Any monkey business is ill-advised.”

Did she just _look_ at me?

“Questions?”

—————————— 

**ISAK**

I see the Muslim girl lick her incisor and I brace myself.

“Yeah. I got a question,” she says.

The condescending bitch in front of me looks like she’s following a ping-pong match. Her neck is twitching back and forth between Ms Willhelmsen and the hijabi girl.

—————————— 

**EVEN**

“Isn’t this detention thing going to make you miss your Vigrid* meeting?” Sana says.

My throat instantly dries out and I feel like I’m in a classic death scene where the hero sees all the important moments in his life flash before his eyes. One last montage of instants before the end credits.

Ms Willhelmsen must be in my movie too, because she pales.

—————————— 

**EVA**

I really wish I could have a drink right now.

“I’ll give you the answer to that question, Ms Bakkoush—” the way she spits her name like it’s the hardest thing that’s ever crossed her lips (fuck, now my mind is filling up with the grossest shit) —”next Saturday.”

There’s a pause and I can feel us vacuum the air out of the room as we take a collective breath in.

—————————— 

**VILDE**

“Don’t mess with the bull, young lady, you’ll get the horns,” Ms Willhelmsen says before heading out of the library, the suggestion box tucked under her arm.

I don’t know how she could expose her back to that _psycho_ after what she just said. If you asked me _I_ wouldn’t. I’d be too afraid to get stabbed or something.

God knows what she hides in her burqa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vigrid is a [very racist political organisation in Norway](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vigrid_\(Norway\)).
> 
> I really hope you're liking it so far! I'll be posting as I go along but know that I have an outline, so I don't risk losing inspiration.
> 
> A lot of thanks to my betas: [fandomlimb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlimb), [thelibraryiscool](http://thelibraryiscool.tumblr.com/), and [sparklefartstheunicorn](https://sparklefartstheunicorn.tumblr.com)
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome! You can find me on tumblr at [monstermonstre](https://monstermonstre.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Two

**SANA**

She’s back in her office now, and she left her door and the one to the library wide open (despite the door closer, therefore completely disregarding fire safety regulations!).

I can feel everyone looking at me, waiting for me to talk back. I won’t give them the satisfaction.  
When I speak out, I speak out for myself. Not for an audience.  
They can wait.

Meanwhile these damn neon lights are making my eyes sting.

I focus on a poster, on the wall in front of me. It has two books drawn on it. On the left, a black and white closed book with a scribbled (unreadable) title. On the right, an open book with entire worlds bursting out of its pages in technicolor.  
I can spot a fairytale-type castle with high turrets, a flying bus from the 60’s, and a mermaid all trying to make their way out of the words and into the world.  
The text at the bottom of the poster reads:  
OPEN UP  
A WORLD OF POSSIBILITIES!

I realise I’ve been engrossed by the cheesy inspirational relic when a rattle makes its way to my ears.

——————————

**ISAK**

I don’t want to turn around. But he’s making me. With his giant leg.  
I twist my neck in the most subtle way ever but that’s not enough, since he meets my eyes immediately. He’s bouncing his leg up and down and up and down and it’s making his whole desk shake.  
I don’t have to look around to know that, in this moment, we are all staring at him.

And he’s not bothered.

He’s still looking at me and I haven’t averted my eyes yet. I don’t know what’s going on. I want to look away. I don’t like staring, or rather: I don’t like being _caught_ staring. I like my life normal and unnoticed, thank you very much.

He raises his eyebrows at me and my face burns. I want to reply something, return the affront, but my teeth are clenched like they’re holding on to each other for dear life.

Dude must be some kind of TV mentalist because, when he looks at me, I’m not myself.

——————————

**EVEN**

Someone clears their throat just when I was getting to know Isak’s 10th eyelash from the right. I tilt my head to one side and Isak blurs when my eyes focus past his shoulder to “Ms Hellerud”.

More like “Ms Hella Rude”.  
I make a mental note of this one. Would go well in my memoirs.

I show her my _problem?_ face.  
She does not look impressed. And now I’m sad.

My leg hasn’t stopped bouncing but it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. And, when I notice, it’s not like I can just stop either. It just kind of happens sometimes. You’d think I’d get tired after a while but, it’s the strangest thing, I don’t. It once bounced for over four hours without me really noticing (only now and then being like “oh, still at it?”).

It’s like that god awful movie I love. _Idle Hands_. Like my leg has taken a life of its own. Next thing I know it’s going to want more, need more. Crave diabolical stuff.  
Like kicking people in the shins.

And first on my evil leg’s list would be Princess Hellarude.

——————————

**EVA**

“Can’t you just like...stop?” The blonde girl says. (Vilde? I think I’ve seen her at parties but it’s a bit of a blur. I often end up only remembering sounds and lights and...tastes. Waking up more than once, the day after, with a mixture of artificial mint and Ringnes in my mouth.) “You’re being really rude right now.”

“Am I?” Blonde Presley combs his hair with one hand while resting the other on his bouncy leg, in a taunt.

“You are.” The Muslim girl’s tone is sharp and short.  
She licks her lips (she has the prettiest lipstick; so dark it looks almost black, but with enough light in it that you can tell it isn’t) and sighs. “At least...move the table away or something. Let us rest.”

“Yeah!” Vilde says, her voice echoing in the library.

Heavy silence.

I’m not sure why the guy actually listened to her, but he is now turning slightly to the side so his leg stops hitting the table.  
How did the whole thing not hurt? (Like, my body barely touches furniture and I end up with the darkest bruises.) Or maybe it did hurt like hell but he was too committed to being a pain in the ass.  
If only I could be half as dedicated to getting good grades as he is to being the center of attention.

A zipping sound rips the half a minute of peaceful silence we were enjoying.

——————————

**VILDE**

I whip out my favourite pen —the pink and glittery one with a small plastic unicorn balancing on a spring on top of it— from my pencil case and focus on my piece of paper.

Who am I? Who am _I_? Who _am_ I? _Who_ am I?  
Whoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoamiwhoam  
I see a pair of lips and a splash of pink neon.  
I decide that words are meaningless anyway and I put my pen down.

“You’re on a bus, aren’t you?”

The Muslim girl is staring at me intently. Doesn’t sounds like a question, more a statement. I feel like she can see my soul.

“I am.” I say, raising my chin slightly. She doesn’t need to know Sara kicked me out of the group last week (and that it led to me wasting my Saturday in here).

She’s still staring. “What’s it to you, anyway?” I say. “You planning on joining or something?” (Ha!)

“I am,” she replies.

“But—” (She can’t?!) “—you can’t be a russ!”

She raises her eyebrows. That’s the most expressive I’ve seen her since this purgatory opened hours—I look at the clock—no...nine minutes ago?!

“Oh, you’re right!” She slaps her forehead. “How could I ever be so stupid! I obviously can’t be a russ because—” She starts snapping her fingers, pretending to be probing her memory. “—because...help me out here!”

Because she’s playing dumb doesn’t mean I have to.

“Because you’re Muslim!” I look around for support but I am met with blank stares.

I turn back to the source of all my problems and she’s smiling.

“There it is,” she says.

——————————

**SANA**

When you can’t cry, you always have smiling left.

I really wish it wasn’t islamophobia, I do. Every time it happens, I wish for that person to just be...a jerk. A common jerk: born in Fuckfaceland and raised on wholesome non-processed douche. The common jerk just enjoys being a jerk with their jerk friends and, most of all, they dislike you “just ‘cause”. Nothing personal.

“There _what_ is?” The blonde says. I can’t tell if she’s pretending right now or genuinely this clueless. And that bothers me.

“The islamophobia,” I say, as matter-of-factly as I can (which is really hard to do when your heart is racing so fast it’s making your whole body seesaw).

She blinks too many times and I watch her attitude falter.

“I don’t know what you’re _insinuating_ —” This sounds like a very big word for her. But again: I’m mad. “—but I’m not _islamphobiac_ or whatever! I’m just stating the facts!”

“How would you know?” says the girl behind me, making blondie and I start a little.

I’d forgotten there were other people in here with us.

“How?” Goldilocks seems as taken aback as I am.

“How would you know, Vilde?”

I prop my chin onto my hand and raise an inquisitive eyebrow at Vilde.

“Well, _Eva_ , I saw a documentary once about this Muslim girl who wanted to be a russ—”

“Jesus,” Even’s eye candy says.

“She wanted to be a russ and she couldn—”

“Was this documentary directed by the guy who also did _My Black Friend and I_?” I ask.

“No, this one is by the woman behind _Disabled People Are An Inspiration_ ,” Even says, his leg finally at rest.

Vilde is so red in the face right now, I think that if I threw water on her it would sizzle. But it looks like she finally understood that she’d better shut up. She crosses her arms against her chest, realises how childish that makes her look, disentangles them and rests her hands on her laps in the most unnatural way possible.

——————————

**ISAK**

“So, you want to be a russ?” Eva says.

The Muslim girl turns to her and _really_ smiles for the first time. “Yeah. That’s what cool people do, right?”

Eva smiles. “True.”

“I’m Sana,” the hijabi girl extends her hand. Eva grabs it.

“Eva.”

“Isak.”

Why did I just say that? They couldn’t have been more clearly talking to each other. Now everyone —except Vilde who is resolutely staring ahead of her, probably at the clock (oh God, only 7:27?)— is looking at me. I’m hoping now is the time my superpower awakes and I discover I can blend perfectly into furniture. IKEA-man, they’ll call me.

The guy behind me clears his throat. “Even!”

I’m so grateful I could kiss him right here and there.

Sana and Eva seem to be back to talking about russ stuff, their voices lowered. I feel a kick in my chair.

“Nice to meet you, Isak.”

I turn around.

“Yeah, same,” I say.

I’m focusing on his nose. I once read that if you do that, people think you’re looking at them in the eyes.  
I can’t look at him in the eyes.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

He purses his lips and nods slightly.

“Cool convo,” he says.

I look at him in the eyes (what the _hell_ is wrong with me today?). “Yeah.”

I see his smile grow in his blue eyes before it even reaches his mouth.

“Are you going to be a russ?” he asks.

I scoff. “You insult me!”

“Why? Are you too cool to be a russ?”

That’s not fair.

“That’s not fair,” I say. “I can’t answer that without compromising myself. Either I say no and you counter with “then why aren’t you a russ?”. After that, no matter what I say next, it will always feel like you won the argument and I’m grasping at straws to defend myself. Or I say yes and then you can tease me about how I basically claimed I was super cool.”

I stop briefly to catch my breath.

“Either way, I lose.”

“I agree, so you better just give in now,” he says.

——————————

**EVEN**

I love how easily I can unsettle him and how fast he recovers.

We’ve been talking a fair bit now with only a few awkward pauses and I’ve been still for most of it, which is new.

It’s weird how I can be so daring and so terrified at the same time. It’s like I’m diving head first into the ocean and it’s only when I’m falling, and my insides are turning into shards of ice, that I remember I am afraid of depth.

_So far so good…_  
_So far so good…  
_ _So far so good…_

“Yeah, no, I like movies! Sure,” he says.

“Sounds like what an alien would say to try and blend in at the Cannes festival,” I say.

“Shut up,” he says, his lips stretching to reveal the cutest gap teeth.

“No no, listen—” I deepen my voice and frown (this is how serious people look like, right?). “—I love moving pictures! The way the pictures...move and how the sound the tiny people in it make is dialogue and the thing commoners call “plot”! Yes! Brilliant!”

Isak punches me in the arm. “Shut up!”

“Uh? My favourite j— jay— gen-rah you ask? Oh, um, human. Yes, I’d have to say: human. It’s the one that jibes most with me because I too am, you know, a human.”

I finally made him laugh and I take a moment to savour it.  
The way his entire face relaxes and opens. How his chest shakes so much but very little sound comes out of his mouth.  
So much contained in such a small body (and this has nothing to do with how big I am, we’re all so small when you compare us to...mostly everything else).

His breathing is almost back to normal. “I like action movies.”

“Action genre?”

“Action jaynrah, yes,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” I tilt my head slightly to the side.

“No, I don’t know—” He readjusts his snapback on his head and looks away. “—I guess because action movies aren’t really clever. I don’t know.” He looks back at me. “They just help empty my brain, I guess.”

We’re just looking at each other now, revelling in this truth we’re sharing. Overworked brains need emptying.  
In this instant, our busy buzzing minds are connected.

And I can’t help but ruin it.

“Not clever? Have you even _seen_ Die Hard?”

——————————

**EVA**

It’s like anything in contact with Even (his leg, another boy, sound waves themselves for all I know!) becomes loud. The boys’ chatter carries. But it’s not like I really care.  
Because, in this moment, Sana’s presence dominates the noise.

It feels like we’ve been talking for ages. It’s surprising how easy it can be to just _chat_ when someone really listens. It’s like when a computer has been running in the background, and you don’t even notice it was ever making a noise until you turn it off, and your ears buzz with pleasant silence.

I hadn’t realised people mostly wait for their turn to talk until Sana started to actively listen to me.  
So I make sure I listen back.

“So yeah, not only two older brothers but Elias’ friends are _always_ home and it’s like I have six siblings instead!” She rolls her eyes and I feel a bit of her exhaustion. But in a nice way.

“What about you?” she asks.

The pit just under my sternum awakens and widens as it yawns and stretches.

“Only child.” I shrug as if it doesn’t matter to me.  
It does.

“That must be so _nice_ not to have to share the attention! And your house must be _so_ quiet!”

The pit must have swallowed my smile because Sana is frowning now. It’s the longest we’ve been without talking since she introduced herself.  
Far away, in another universe, Isak and Even are laughing and their banter barely reaches my dimension.

How does that breathing exercice go again?

“Hey.”

Sana’s deep brown eyes are locked onto mine and I land back in the moment.

“I don’t know how you usually do it, but _I_ have a special ritual when I make a new friend,” Sana says.

She lifts her jacket from the back of her chair and presents me with the pin-full lapel.

“Pick one,” she says.

I’m still looking in her eyes. When the (fucking neon) lights hit them just right, her irises unveil slivers of polished bronze.

“Any one?” I ask.

She nods.

I feel slightly overwhelmed. She has so many.  
A black lozenge with _Boss Bitch_ in silver letters. A _girl gang_ in golden letters on a pastel green background. A white tear drop containing _Male Tears_ in an elegant font. A circle with two silhouettes in it (who scream _X-Files_ to me for some reason, even though I’ve never really watched the show) shining flashlights on to the ground around them. In the beams of light, the words _Trust_ (on the left) and _No One_ (on the right). A square with golden edges and text that reads _GAL PAL_ on a pastel pink background. And, finally, the _DUMP HIM_ one.

I’m worrying I might be taking too long to decide (and I shouldn’t be this picky since I’m being offered) but Sana is so calm my stress simply doesn’t stick.  
I finally settle for the _GAL PAL_ one. It’s the simplest of the bunch really.  
But mostly, it feels right.

——————————

**VILDE**

They’re all blabbering and the clock is showing 7:52 and it takes me a lot of strength to not smash my head against the desk.  
I’ve never been so bored in my _life_!

I can’t even properly see the outside in this prison: the windows are too high up on the walls, tiny squares of starless dark blue getting lighter by the minute. They make me feel like I’m in a doll house.  
Soon the roof is going to detach and a gigantic hand will slowly make its way down to us (maybe rearrange some furnitures while it’s at it, with short pushes of its huge fingers) before picking me up by the collar of my pink top and moving me into a plastic Chevrolet next to an ugly Ken.

If I had kept my mouth shut, maybe I could have created a new bus with that Sana girl and the other losers. I mean it’s not like I have a lot of (if any) choices left.  
Better to be part of a loser bus than to be a gåruss*.

The sound of Eva’s laughter drills through my ear and straight to my teeth. Worse than nails on a chalkboard (I guess anyway, who uses a chalkboard anymore?).

“Ms Willhelmsen is right across the hall!” I whispershout at the girls.

Sana shakes her head slowly while twisting her wrist in the universal _so?_ sign.

“So she told us not to talk! You’re going to get us in trouble!”

Sana sighs and gets up.

Um, hello? Sana got up and now she’s going to the library door, this is not a drill!

“What are you doing?” My voice is reduced to a real whisper this time. My vocal chords are hugging so tight together I think I might just reach that Mariah Carey sound.

Sana peeks outside the door quickly and I guess the coast is clear because she starts looking for something at the top of the doorframe.

“What’s going on?” This time it’s Isak getting antsy, his voice almost matching mine.

Sana sticks her tongue out as she goes on her tiptoes to reach the door closer. She pulls at something and it triggers a hissing sound. She stuffs whatever she got out of the door inside her niqab and power walks back to us as the mechanical arm closes the door.

I break into a cold sweat. “Very funny, Sana, now put it back!”

“Put what back?” She props her chin up on top her the fingers of her right hand and gives me an angelic eye roll. _Whoopsie doozy!_

“I wouldn’t do that,” Isak says.

I’m not sure if I can hear footsteps or if it’s my heart beating into my ears.

“I know what I’m doing, you all just _shush_!” Sana says.

I look around and neither Eva nor Even are smiling.

I hear a “God damnit!” resonate behind the library door before it is forcefully pulled open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Gåruss are people who participate in russefeiring but without a bus._   
>  _The "so far so good" bit is a direct reference to the intro to the movie "La Haine". You can watch the subtitled intro[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9NVaDR5SFQ)._
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks a lot for all the feedback so far! I hope I don't disappoint!  
> If you haven't already, check out the amazing gif edits [evenandsana](https://evenandsana.tumblr.com) made [here](https://evenandsana.tumblr.com/post/161200688642/dear-ms-willhelmsen-we-accept-the-fact-that-we), [here](https://evenandsana.tumblr.com/post/161206706072/eva-its-only-as-i-step-inside-the-library-and), and [here](https://evenandsana.tumblr.com/post/161209675552/you-may-not-talk-snottys-time-to-sink-into-her)!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas: [fandomlimb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlimb), [sparklefartstheunicorn](https://sparklefartstheunicorn.tumblr.com), and [thelibraryiscool](https://thelibraryiscool.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome! You can find me on tumblr at [monstermonstre](https://monstermonstre.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight content warning for (canonical in The Breakfast Club) abuse.

**SANA**

 

“Why is that door closed?” Ms Willhemsen’s breasts are bouncing to the rhythm of her furious steps.  
  
Everyone is silent. I bend my head in mocked penitence.  
  
“Why is that door closed?”  
  
“How are we supposed to know?” Her eyes land on me. _Lock and load._ “We’re not supposed to move, right?”  
  
Ms Willhelmsen is huffing and puffing, her breasts moving up and down and up and down.  
  
“Who closed that door?”  
  
“I think a screw fell out of it,” Isak says. I send him mental waves of gratefulness.  
  
“It just closed, Ms,” Eva says. I thank Allah for surrounding me with good people on this cursed Saturday.  
  
Ms Willhelmsen seems to barely register my comrades’ pleas as her eyes stay fixed on me.  
  
“Give me that screw.”  
  
“I don’t have it.”  
  
“Do you want me to come here and yank it out of your veil?” she says, raising her voice.  
  
My body gets cold as death as sweat beads on my forehead and upper lip. She wouldn’t dare _...right_?  
  
“I don’t have it.” My voice is quieter than I intended it to be.  
  
“Excuse me, Ms—” You can’t really look around when you’re paralysed. I can only picture Vilde, hand raised and chin up. It’s hard though, picturing her standing up to someone. “—but why would anybody want to steal a screw?”  
  
I can hear Ms Willhelmsen move and for just one moment, I have this gut feeling she’s going to hit me. Or Vilde.  
  
So I close my eyes.  
  
I can hear the door open and I look up.  
  
“Mr Næsheim, here! Now!” Ms Willhelmsen barks.  
  
Even’s chair grates against the linoleum floor.  
  
“And bring that newspaper display over with you.” Ms Willhelmsen is propping the library door open with her foot. She quickly probes its mechanism with her hand but without conviction.  
  
Even has barely touched the heavy wooden rack when she interjects. “And no monkey business, alright? I got my eye on you.”  
  
Even’s hand stills on the newspaper display and his knuckles whiten for a second. He takes a loud breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and I see the blood rushing through every inch of his hand again. He opens his eyes and starts dragging the bulky furniture towards Ms Willhelmsen.  
  
She points and shouts while Even puts the smallest amount of effort possible in maneuvering the heavy display. Magazines and newspapers fall and Even trips on them more than once, but always avoids crashing to the ground by stepping on Ms Willhelmsen’s feet or “resting” his elbow against her stomach.  
  
The library door is finally open wide, the magazine display jammed in the door frame. Even has to climb on top of it to come back into the library. I wonder why he doesn’t try to make a break for it instead and use his long legs to put as much distance between him and our page-filled prison as possible.  
  
Ms Willhelmsen, hands on hips, is still admiring “her” handiwork.  
  
“Um, Ms?” Isak has his hand raised. (Who does that anymore?)  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Well, it’s just tha—” The words seem to catch in his throat. 

 —————————— 

  **ISAK**

 

I just have to shrug it off. Like I shrug off the guys talking about pussy and boners.  
  
“That—” I clear my throat.  
  
I’m usually really good at this. But it’s too early in the morning. Yeah.  
Too early.  
  
“Mr Valtersen, if you have something to say say it. Man up a little!”  
  
She’s clearly trying to be encouraging: her hands are motioning upwards, cheering the masculinity in me to ascend to Valhalla or something (is there a Malehalla?). But her words slither around my throat.  
  
“I think what Isak is trying to say is that it’s against fire safety regulations, Ms,” Even says.  
  
Ms Willhelmsen scoffs. I am staring at Vilde’s back, unblinking, trying to swallow the tears that came with the noose of letters Ms Willhelmsen conjured around my neck.  
  
“No really, Ms,” Vilde says. “If there’s a fire then we won’t be able to leave the library easily—”  
  
“Or at all,” I say, mask sliding back into place and noose loosening.  
  
“Or at all! Like—” Vilde lowers her voice as if to share something ugly “—we might die!”  
  
There’s a pause where I think Vilde took it too far. Ruined our ploy.  
But then  
  
“What are you doing, Mr N æsheim? Don’t just stand there goggling and get that thing out of the way!”  
  
Even’s lost all his cool and is just frowning now, arms hanging loosely at his sides. I think it just hit him, like it hit me.  
She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing and, most importantly, she’s as afraid as any of us.  
  
“You want us all killed? Move it!” Ms Willhelmsen claps her hands a couple of times to start Even into action, before she makes a pretend attempt at moving the newspaper display on her own.

Sana tongues the inside of her cheek, pushing back a smile.  
  
After some struggling, the display is (almost) back to where it first was, the door is shut, and Even is back in his seat behind me.  
  
“You’re not fooling anybody, Bakkoush,” Ms Willhelmsen says, dark areolas blooming on her armpits. “The next screw that falls out is going to be you.”  
  
Sana mutters something.  
  
“What was that?” Ms Willhelmsen strides up to Sana’s desk.  
  
Sana straightens in her chair and looks up, her eyes meeting Ms Willhelmsen’s. The tension in the air is so thick I find it hard to breathe.  
  
“Go. To. Hell,” Sana says, louder this time.  
  
“You just won another Saturday in detention,” Ms Willhelmsen says.  
  
“I’m devasted,” Sana says flatly.

“That’s one more, right there.”

“I’m also free the Saturday after that, you know.” Sana pretends to count on her fingers. “After that, hm, not sure. I’m a busy woman, see.”

“You better buy yourself a calendar ‘cause it’s going to be filled!”

Sana rolls her eyes but she’s not looking so smug anymore.

“You want another one?” Ms Willhelmsen taunts. “Just say the word!” She smiles, like she’s cracked the code. Like she’s figured it all out. “Instead of going to prison you’ll come here!”

Sana’s jaw bulges under the skin of her cheeks. “I guess I should thank you for that,” she says, raising her eyebrows, eyes wide.

“That’s another one!”

—————————— 

 

**EVEN**

 

A car is driving at full speed towards you.  
There are two types of primal reflexes: running out of its way or staying frozen into place.  
But whichever reflex your brain goes for doesn’t matter if you have nowhere to run.  
You’re left with nothing but closing your eyes and praying death comes quick.

“I got you for the rest of your life if you don’t watch it!” Ms Willhelmsen is not hiding her grin now. “But maybe you want another one?”

“Yes,” Sana says, dead in the face as if the car already hit her.

“You got it!”

“Let it go!” Vilde shouts, taking us all by surprise. She mouths something at Sana.

Whatever Vilde communicated must have worked because the longest silence in recorded history ensues.

“I got you, Bakkoush,” Ms Willhelmsen makes an H with her hand, “for the whole month, I got you.”

Sana is chewing the inside of her cheeks and staring straight ahead. Ms Willhelmsen smiles and I’m not a violent guy (or at least not in the traditional sense) but I could punch the smug off her face right now.

The moment the door closes behind Ms Willhelmsen, Sana opens the valves and screams.

“FUCK! YOU!”

Nice knowing you all and morituri te salutant!  
I decide now is the time to try my hand at the magical act of vanishing. I’m trying to shift the molecules of my body with my mind. Trying to break them loose, force them into splitting up and merging with the air around them. Picturing a million pieces of me getting carried around the world, breathed in and out by billions of human mouths.

But Ms Willhelmsen doesn’t come back.

 

**********

 

We don’t really feel like talking after that.

When I get too annoyed at the ticking clock echoing in the library and in my ears (it’s been 9:06 for two hours now!), I get my lighter out and turn it on and off and on and off until I can physically feel the waves of rage and annoyance emanating from the rest of the group.  
That’s when I switch to passing my fingers over the open flame. I let the fire lick my skin, and sometimes linger (so it can test and taste), but never too long to cause actual pain or damage.

And  _ that’s _ when Isak choses to turn around.  
When I look like a psycho playing with an open flame. A psycho who feels no pain. A psycho willing to burn down the entire school.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

I smile. “No.”

Isak does not seem convinced.

“This is nothing, really,” I say.

Isak rolls his eyes and I have to fight the impulse to reach for him. Hug him, kiss him, brush some of his curls behind his left ear, I’m not sure which.

_ i don’t know what it is about you that closes and opens _

“What?” I say, knowing full well _ what _ .

“Nothing, it’s just—” Isak waves his hands around “—the whole ‘fire cannot kill a dragon’ thing you got going on. It’s just so cliché.”

“I’m confused. First you seem to think what I’m doing should hurt. But when I reassure you it doesn’t, you imply that my fire trick is unoriginal, and that I play it up to look cool or something.”

Isak is trying not to smile. He doesn’t seem to realise that the corners of his mouth still twitch upwards ever so slightly and his eyes light up all the same.  
No, they don’t light up.

They fucking twinkle.

—————————— 

 

**EVA**

 

I can’t catch everything Isak and Even are saying to each other but what I lack in words, they make up in body language.

I agree with Isak. Even’s pseudo-badass attitude impresses no one. He’s already huge and yet he makes sure he takes as much space literally and figuratively as possible. Last year’s me would’ve been so impressed. Or, more accurately, would’ve been crushed by his figurative weight.

I keep rubbing the pin Sana gave me.

But I know better now. I know now, that people are for show.  
(Most people anyway.)  
They pick the labels they want and stick them all over themselves hoping it’ll cover the ordinary inside.

Me, I think I figured out a trick to stay out of the charade. (It sounds dramatic but it’s not. It’s simple. Simple is the opposite of drama.) I just try not to expect anyone to be or stay a certain way. People will be people and I wasted enough time attempting to understand them (or myself).

Oh, and also, I drink.  
Drinking works really well.

“Cool” people want us to believe they do not care.

And Even, for example, cares way too much.

Right now, he is nonchalantly turning on his lighter again and bringing it to his slightly opened lips until the flame disappears into his mouth. He closes his mouth and pretends to swallow. Isak, open-faced, follows the imaginary course of the flame with his eyes, down Even’s exposed throat and lower. He looks away when he passes his collar bone.

Isak is cooler in a way, because he tries to pretend like he doesn’t care either. But he only vaguely manages to do so when he shuts up, shuts down. As soon as he opens his mouth, he opens everything else.  
It’s cute.

I go back to examining Sana’s back and my heart sinks a bit.  
  
I wonder how many months of rubbing it’ll take for the surface of the GAL PAL pin to get so polished that I could skip it over a lake before watching it, and the reminder of this Saturday in detention, disappear under the ripples.   
Fast forward, a few years later, to a child finding it on the shore and thinking it the prettiest most peculiar stone they’ve ever seen. They would treasure this smooth piece of silver, pink, and gold; unaware they were painting new memories on top of the old.   
  


**********

 

I keep dozing off. My head rests on my hand until it falls off and I jolt back awake before it hits my table. Repeat ad nauseam.

And yet the clock’s hands don’t seem to be moving and Sana still hasn’t talked to me.  
And I’m not sure I can talk to her.   
No, strike that.    
After what just happened, I doubt she wants to hear anything from anyone ever again.

Vilde is flipping through a magazine she brought in. From the glossy perfume ad I spot on its back cover, I’m thinking Teen Vogue or Cosmo. 

I have a love/hate relationship with these things. They make me feel like shit most of the time and I can see right through their commercial bullshit (my ex would call them capitalistic brainwash and make me feel even shittier) but I keep getting drawn to them because “maybe, this time, if I do what page 24 says (really do it) then I’ll turn into graceful and hairless swan.  
Maybe this time, I could learn to talk to people without chugging alcohol first like I’m filling up the gas tank.   
Maybe this time, people will look at me and not through me.  
Maybe this time, they won’t walk right past me.”

—————————— 

 

**VILDE**

 

Maybe they’ll remember my name.

I flip to page 26.  _ How to make you want him. _ No. I rub my eyes and blink the stars away.  _ How to make him want you.  
_ Makes more sense.

Step 1. Act confident.

How long has it been since I last looked at the clock? It feels like an hour so divide that in half meaning it must be around 10.  
I look up.

9:43 (fuck)

I flip a few pages and end up on a spread on eyeliners.  
Sana has been quiet for a long time now and it’s somehow making me more terrified than when she was sassing Ms Willhelmsen.

_ That was so fucked up. _

Sana is staring at me.  
_ Act confident. _

“What?” I ask.

“What was so fucked up?”

I swear all the blood just left my body. “What the fuck? Are you psychic?”

“You said it out loud,” Eva says, her expression doing the splits between mockery and concern.

“What was so fucked up?” Sana asks again.

“Nothing!” Why do I feel like I’m on trial here?

“Was it something from your magazine or?” Eva is trying to help. I think.

“No! No—” I close the Cosmo “—it’s just, what happened with Ms Willhelmsen. That was fucked up. She can’t speak to us like that.”

“You’re right, Vilde. She can’t speak to  _ you _ like that.”  
  
“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sana raises her eyebrows and leans back onto her chair, arms crossed.  
Why does she have to be so aggressive all the time?

“Why do you have to be so aggressive?”

“Vilde—” Eva starts.

“I’m just tired,” Sana says.

And this time, she’s not attacking. She’s stating a fact. And she closes her eyes. And I don’t know what to say.

“Have you tried drinking some potato water?”

“Oh my God, Vilde!” Sana gets up. “Do you ever shut up?”

“What? It’s a thing! Potatoes are full of potassium and—”

“Did you read that in The New Scientist?” Isak says, a smirk in his voice.

I turn around to face him and I am not acting confident anymore. I  _ am _ confidence.

“I read it in Teen Vogue, actually. I could lend you my copy if you want. I’m sure you’d find great tips on what dress to get to fit your body shape!”

Isak pales and blushes at the same time. Like an old mood ring that doesn’t quite work anymore.

“That’s enough, Vilde,” Even says.

“And what about you, uh? What are you even doing here? Did you freak out again like in Bakka? Do you think anyone is going to listen to some psycho?” 

I see Mom in her bed and I’m going to be sick.

But I can’t stop now that everyone has decided to be against me. I try and I try and everyone just makes fun of me. I’ll show them how it feels.

“Jesus!” Eva murmurs.

I turn to her, open my mouth, and

nothing.

Eva is staring at me, her mouth slightly agape. Sana is staring at me, frowning. Isak is staring at his table. Even is staring at Isak.

And I’m going to be sick.

—————————— 

 

**SANA**

 

Vilde had to run to the bathroom.

We heard Ms Willhelmsen call after her at first, but she quickly stopped and went quietly back to her office. So I’m guessing Vilde must have looked on the verge of unloading the contents of her stomach.  
I want to look at Even right now, check on him, but I can’t. This is all my fault.

Fortunately, I don’t have to stay alone with my conscience for too long because Vilde comes back inside the library, with a woman on her heels.

“Oh, you didn’t mention you had friends in here with you! Hello!”

“They’re not my friends,” Vilde whispers. She looks so pale I wonder how she is still standing.

“Hm. You shouldn’t shut love out of your heart, you know. An inactive heart is a dying heart. I knew a man who had two heart attacks in a row!”

“Because he didn’t love?” Isak asks.

“Oh no. He was old, and didn’t exercise enough, and had a history of heart diseases in his family. But now that you mention it, he did just break up with his boyfriend. Two or three months before it happened.”

I think I love that woman.  
Vilde is looking super uncomfortable, though.  
But then again, she did just throw up after insulting us.

“She’s the school’s doctor,” Vilde says with an apologetic shrug.

“Elise Næss. But I’m not the doctor, honey. This school hasn’t had a doctor since the 60’s.”

“This is where she tells us Ms Willhelmsen died 100 years ago, right?” says Even.

Vilde’s eyes widen and she is quick to go back to her seat (and I feel her).

_...I can’t believe I feel Vilde right now. _

I know Even is joking, probably referencing yet another movie I haven’t seen, but my stomach does a little flip at his comment; as if I was in an elevator that started too abruptly.  
  
_ Don’t think about jinns, don’t think about jinns, don’t think about jinns. _

“Oh you’re here too, Isak! I told you not enough sleep could have dire consequences!”

We turn to him, chairs squeaking.  
Isak shrugs uncomfortably, still staring at his desk.

“I’m not here because of that,” he mutters.

Why are you here, then?

Ms Næss hums and seems to think for a bit.  
She claps her hands together. “Oh, right!” And heads towards the back of the library.

We exchange puzzled looks while she rummages through books, sing-songing “No, no, no, nuh-uh, no, nope, neither…”

—————————— 

 

**ISAK**

 

“Ah-ha!”

Ms Næss is holding a big book in the air, exultant. She reminds me of Link finding a treasure. Books are scattered on the ground around her; spines broken, pages kissing the dusty floor.  
It was already like that when she got here, right?

She makes her way back to us but stops when she reaches Even’s desk. They look at each other. Even is twirling a pen between his long fingers. Ms Næss eventually smiles and blinks a bit too long, like cats do, before resuming her walk.

She drops the heavy volume on Vilde’s desk and starts flipping its pages.

“Wh-what is this?” Vilde asks.

“Gray’s Anatomy.”

“I didn’t know it was from a novel.”

“It’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

Ms Næss stops her research to look at Vilde. “What do  _ you _ mean?” she says, frowning.

“I didn’t know the show was from a novel,” Vilde says. “But you’re saying it’s not. But this book is called Grey’s Anatomy, isn’t it?”

Ms Næss is still frowning. I know what Vilde is talking about but there’s no way in hell I’m going to expose I thought the same thing she did. Especially not after what she said to me. To us.

Sana gets up and joins Vilde and the “doctor”. She places a finger inside the book so as not to lose Ms Næss’ page and closes the volume carefully.  
The illustration on the cover is big enough that I can see it. It’s an anatomically correct drawing of a heart. Above the heart the title _Gray’s Anatomy_ , and under it the name _Henry Gray F.R.S_.

“It’s a classic medical textbook,” Sana explains. “Henry Gray wrote it which is why it’s called  _ Gray’s Anatomy _ .” 

There is no hint of mockery in Sana’s voice and her eyes are bright with excitement.

She points at the author’s name. “This means  _ Fellow of the Royal Society _ . It’s an old and fancy English distinction they give to scientists.” Sana reopens the book at the page Elise Næss left it.

“So the TV show knew this, right?” Vilde asks.

Sana nods. “The show’s title was a reference to this book.”

“Why are you helping her, Sana?” Even interrupts. His voice is lower than I’ve ever heard it.

Sana turns to face him and stares him down. I am in the line of fire. IKEA-man would start a new life as a pencil cup called HEJSAN right now.

—————————— 

 

**EVEN**

 

“There’s a TV show called  _ Gray’s Anatomy _ ? That is very interesting!” Elise says. “Is it an animation of the drawings from the book going about their lives? Individual organs in a world where organs are usually kept in prisons of flesh for the survival of the human race?”

“No?” Eva is trying really hard not to smile.

Elise’s chaotic mind almost made me forget about Sana helping out Vilde for a minute. Helping her as if Princess Hellarude hadn’t insulted us multiple times without showing any remorse. As if Sana wasn’t the first she’d targeted.

Speaking of, I catch Sana lost in thoughts, looking at Eva’s half smile, and stealing it for a brief moment.

“Why are you helping Vilde?” I ask again.

Sana starts out of her daydreaming.

“Why do you care?” she says, giving me her classic death stare (that hasn’t worked on me since I was 16).

“Are you kidding me right now? Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

My blood is boiling, and my skin electric.   
I am the calmest guy on Earth. I am the Unfazed. But sometimes, I have these bursts of energy taking control of my brain. Oftentimes they’re small and short bursts of fire that are done as soon as they started. Like squeezing an orange peel next to an open flame.  
But the shorter they last, the less time I have to try and contain them.

“Oh, please explain the situation to me with your manly words! Make me comprehend the world around me, I beg of you!” Sana says.

I see red.   
__ Since when am I the one keeping receipts for her? Since when is she the calm one and I’m the angry one?  
__ Am we starring in yet another remake of Freaky Friday?  
I open my mouth.

“I’d love an explanation too. If you don’t mind.” Elise has her head tilted to one side and is looking at me. “Could you explain to me why you are angry at Ms Bakkoush for helping Ms Hellerud?”

She looks like she’s genuinely asking and that’s throwing me off. I don’t know how to respond honestly. Or rather, I  _ can’t _ respond honestly. When I do, people freak out. Think I’m weird for being so direct (upfront, rude, however you want to call it). But all it takes, for them to go from thinking I’m weird to thinking I’m cool, is for me to channel the weird into something Extra.

The red is gone but my teeth are grinding.

“Vilde has done nothing but insult us since we got here,” I say, trying (and failing) to not sound whiny.

“I have not!” Vilde erupts. I’m glad that she’s outwhining me.

“She’s right, she didn’t do nothing but insult us,” Sana says. “She also suggested I drink potato water!”

—————————— 

 

**EVA**

 

It’s hard not to smile when Sana’s being witty. Her smirk is contagious.

“Ah, I see,” Elise Næss says. “Potatoes are one of the most primal sources of life. Cheap food accessible even to the working class—”

Vilde is turning bright pink. I remember hearing Sara and Ingrid (when I was still friends with them) make fun of Vilde’s clothes, and tell about that time they saw her mother stumble in a Polet early in the afternoon.

“—ot to mention it can be as deadly as apples!”

Did I zone out for that long?

“But—” Vilde starts, “—apples aren—” Sana shakes her head slightly and Vilde shuts up.

“So here,” Elise Næss says, pointing at a page in the book again, “is the chapter on the stomach. You should start there if you want to understand how you ended up vomiting earlier!”

I taste bitterness in the back of my throat. The taste of blurry nights followed by mornings of neon smudges on my pillow.

“And you should eat too, yes? Or else your stomach will digest itself. And then you’ll wake up one day with a hole where your belly button should be.”

“Really?” Vilde asks.

“No.”

Sana frowns and looks at me.

_“The hell?”_ I mouth.

She shakes her head and points at her chest: “ _ You’re asking me?” _

“What was I doing here?” Elise Næss asks, looking around as if she’d just teleported and was trying to get her bearings.

“You were helping Vilde with her stomach problems?” I offer.

“Not really, no,” she says.

Sana’s mouth is short of hanging open now. Isak’s face is buried in his arms, resting on his desk, but I can see his body shaking from barely contained laughter. Even is combing his hair back so hard with his hands it’s stretching his face into a still expression of surprise. Vilde is looking wildly around for help.

Elise Næss hits her open palm with her fist. 

“Ha!” she erupts, making all of us jump, before she rushes up the stairs leading to the library’s mezzanine where the multimedia section is (where no one ever goes; it’s filled with ancient Macintosh computers, from when they were still called Macintosh and the fact they came with a mouse was their most high tech and revolutionary feature).

“What the hell is wrong with her?” I whisper, feeling a big smile stretching my face.

“She’s insane!” Vilde says.

“What the hell is wrong with  _ her _ ?” Even is bouncing his leg again. “What the hell is wrong with Sana? Vilde has been nothing short of an asshole to us since she walked in, and the minute she’s having trouble with a fucking textbook she rushes to help her?”

—————————— 

 

**VILDE**

 

He’s right.

He’s right and Sana is still standing next to my desk. And when she realises he’s right, she has only to extend her arm to reach me.

But she’s too busy throwing knives at him with her eyes to bother with me.

He’s right, though. Why did she help me? What game is she playing at?

“I’m sorry, do I owe you an explanation of my  _ wild _ behaviour? Am I meant to report to you before making any decisions?” Sana’s tone is way too sweet.

“You know what I mean…”

“And you know what _ I _ mean. Process your issues with her your own way and let me decide for myself what to do and what to think.”

Sana walks back to her desk. What is it with these people exposing their backs to each other? No matter how nice Sana was to me with the book, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel comfortable enough to turn my back to her. And she seems to know Even, so how come she’s not terrified he’ll go nuts and rush her now that she let her guard down? He’s holding his pen so tight his hand and arm are shaking, for crying out loud!

“I can’t believe you forgot how people like Vilde—”

“I’d be very careful about what I say next if I were you, Even,” Sana says.

“Vilde can be...inconsiderate. But she’s not a mean person,” Eva says.

“Oh fan-fucking-tastic!” Even replies loudly, dropping his pen on his desk and leaning back on his chair.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, reminding me I’ve been holding my own breath this entire time. I try to take a big gulp of air as silently as possible.   
Isak’s head is still buried in his arms but he’s not moving anymore.  
Maybe he forgot to breathe too, and passed out.   
I spend the next few minutes making sure I have not forgotten how to breathe automatically.

Eva said she didn’t think I was a mean person.  
Even was angry at me but he didn’t jump me.  
I was rude to Sana (without meaning to!!!) but she helped me with Gray’s Anatomy.

“Are you all napping already?”

Ms Næss is back from the media section, beaming at us, a few CDs tucked under her arm.

“I was just resting my eyes!” Isak mutters rapidly; eyes puffy, the creases in his clothes printed in red on his forehead, and drool glistening at the corner of his mouth.

Ms Næss glances at her watch. “It’ll be lunch soon! Isn’t that exciting, Ms Hellerud?”

“Yay,” I say flatly.

She reaches the front doors and, before leaving, points at the clock on the wall in front of us.

“Oh by the way,” she says. “This clock’s 20 minutes fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, finally! I'm sorry it took so long between the last chapter and this one: I wasn't doing very well and couldn't write for a while. I'm hoping I can produce next chapter faster (for you and me: I struggle less with the story the less time passes between each chapter).
> 
> The "i do not know what it is about you" part is a quote from [an e.e. cummings poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/somewhere-i-have-never-travelledgladly-beyond).
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is welcome! This is the long fic I've ever published and it's making me really happy and really anxious at the same time.
> 
> Thanks a lot to my betas [fandomlimb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlimb) and [thelibraryiscool](https://thelibraryiscool.tumblr.com)!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [monstermonstre](https://monstermonstre.tumblr.com).


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